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Saturday, August 31, 2013

When Next We Ever Meet ... Please Don't Touch Me!

NOTE: MY BASTARD BLAH-UGH! IS NOT FORMATTED PROPERLY, SO THIS THING IS ALL RUNNING TOGETHER. I THOUGHT I'D HAD GOOD INTERACTIONS WITH THE HOMELAND SECURITY PEOPLE ON PLUM ISLAND THIS WEEK, BUT APPARENTLY NOT!! NEXT TIME I'LL BRING DONUTS .......................... By this point I should just officially notify everyone that I hate to shake hands. It really makes me uncomfortable with rare exception. (Of course I say that mainly so you can believe you’re the exception, although you’re probably not …)............... Generally speaking, I have a strong aversion to any casual physical contact, except with attractive women, and then I’m usually comfortable being touched, if not overtly groped. But where most people are concerned, I really like to stay at a distance for a variety of reasons and not have them glad-handing me, like I was so many ripe tomatoes or a bag of frozen soup................ The worst place it comes up, of course, is in the work world. There, if one intends to move forward in the hunt for green opportunities, one must be ready to shake a few hands. It’s whorish—we all recognize that—but that’s what they mean when they say you have to “get your hands dirty” in order to make a living................ Socially, however, I see every reason to try and curb this practice. Fortunately, as I’ve found myself moving (albeit gracefully) toward middle early later adulthood, I find I care much less about faux impressions and am learning to protect myself from humanity at large. “I don’t want to shake hands,” I’ve boldly told several people lately when they’ve made the attempt, one of whom was a stranger and I guess will remain so................ “Sorry, I can’t shake hands right now,” I tried with a few others, mumbling something incoherent about being injured and dirty. That usually works well and even draws some sympathy, which is always a welcome commodity in any sociopath’s world. The only problem is, one then has to keep rubbing their hand as if it continues to bring pain, or has to treat it as if it’s infected with some weird bacteria that you don’t want to touch to any other part of your body, thus demonstrating why you spared that good-souled hand-shaker your cooties................ Another tactic I use is simply ignoring the outstretched hand, which sometimes works very well. I turn away and bluster some witty pontifications about how humorous the weather can be, what with its sun and rain. By the time I turn back, they’ll often have grown tired of holding their anticipating hand out—and while my heart sometimes feels a pang for that quick dropped look of disappointment they display, I subsequently try to do my chipper part to buoy their deflated spirits with more bluster about the wind and hail................ Another contact item that I find especially offensive is the hand wipe on the shoulder or back. While it sometimes comes from authentic affection, it doesn’t always, and I’m too dumb to differentiate, so it’s in my best interest to avoid the whole thing. This is a popular tactic of politicians and entertainment industry people, who do a great deal of handshaking and try however they can to wipe off each contact as fast as possible. Look for it—it’s a two-step process that involves first the handshake, then the same hand on the shoulder or back, with the quick wipe. (It’s nearly impossible to duck under it, and these pros use a hypnosis tactic to district you when they do it.)............... At the end of the day, it remains in my best interest to stay home more often. There I only have to contend with the cats, and I have complete control over them and their tails................ So, going forward I want you to understand the situation. It’s not that I’m not happy to see you—although I’m honestly not entirely sure I am—but let’s do our best to confine our connection to the mental and spiritual planes …............... It’s not that I don’t love you. I’m merely repulsed by your very presence!

1 comment:

  1. I have always liked touching you. Most of the time you're not aware of it. I'm the one behind you in the market, or the train into NYC, casually brushing my fingers against the back of your thigh, or pressing your arm aside with my hand as I (pretend) to hurry past you.

    This is one part confession and one part apology and one part eggs, three cups flour, two ounces weasel spleen, mix and let sit for at least three hours. Then - enjoy!